Obiit
by Cassie Jamie
Summary: T hey gave him back to us in psychological pieces. Chekov character piece, AU


**disclaimer.** Not mine. Never have been and I'll only ever be playing in the sandbox.  
**title.** Obiit  
**rating.** PG-13  
**pairing.** None; Gen.  
**summary.** [T]hey gave him back to us in psychological pieces.  
**warnings.** Mentions of non-con; explicit mentions of torture.

"_Given the choice between the experience of pain and nothing, I would choose pain._"  
- William Faulkner -

It didn't take long for the crew to see that the Pavel Chekov that'd been taken prisoner months ago was not the one they got back. The smiling, happy, smooth-skinned nineteen year old had been replaced by a bitter twenty year old, frowning more often than not, who spat curses at McCoy and Kirk and told the most filthy, lewd things to Sulu. His punctuality, always arriving to shift early to spend a few minutes in review with the relief Navigatorm had disappeared in a tardy haze, a scant three weeks passing of simple light duty - just four hours every other day on the Bridge was all he'd been cleared for - and formal notices of his insubordination had already been logged.

"He's not the kid we had," Bones muttered one night, six weeks after Chekov's release.

It was a year to the day that Pavel had been taken, spirited away from the rest of the landing party; like moths to a flame, they'd been drawn into a trap by a distress call, a beacon calling out an SOS across the stars for iEnterprise/i to hear. The enemy, their species name still unknown though the Federation had taken to calling them Diabolus, had sprung from the abandoned buildings of a once-thriving village and in seconds, had speared down two-thirds of the team, and killed several more while Spock's quick thinking saved the last three members.

"What's that supposed to mean?" Sulu asked. His lips were pursed in annoyance even as he lifted a glass of amber colored ale to his mouth, hating the somber and angry mood that permeated the Captain's private quarters.

From beside him, Uhura answered, "A part of him died with the Diabolus. They took the Pavel we loved and they tore him to shreds, Hikaru."

"They broke him," Kirk added, knocking back a sixth shot of Jack. "They abused him, tortured him, until there was nothing of our Chekov left - that's why they gave him back. They weren't being magnanimous: they got no benefit from holding him and wasting money on feeding him, but they still wanted to make us hurt, so they gave him back to us in psychological pieces."

Sulu looked down at his glass, splaying his fingers out against the condensation on the glass and let his shoulders sag. Thoughts of the unfairness of the situation flooded his mind, angry recitations begging a God he no longer believed in to tell him why, of everyone on iEnterprise/i, it had been Pavel Chekov who'd been forced to suffer at the hands of creatures so unendingly cruel. Why he'd been forced to live through the agony of being raped and beaten and had pieces of his flesh carved out like he were nothing more than a slice of meat.

And, fuck, how Sulu wished he did not know the extent of the young man's injuries; Ship's gossip line had spared him the goriest of details at first, only for the Ensign's official report to shatter any illusions he'd had about Chekov's ordeal. The clinical sounding words had haunted his dreams and turned them to nightmares as the images from the report gave his unsettled brain visuals to work with.

"He's never going to be the same," he declared, a brusque silence having flitted between them and made each of them squirm from the discomfort of it. "They may have given us back his body, but Pavel's still over there and he's not coming home."

Every set of eyes dropped, everyone staring at the glasses they held in tight fists with the realization that Sulu was right – Chekov was lost to them. He'd lost the very zest for life that had made him such a beloved friend, a joyful ally in the pranks and other affairs of the ship, and it was doubtful, his innocence sacrificed in the name of the Federation, that he'd ever be that way again.

However, Jim thought, that did not mean they could not still be his friend. At least, until he pushed them away or he was stolen from the ship by the Admirals they served under. The latter of which was a very real possibility, something he had somehow managed to keep from the group splayed out on his couch and his floor including Spock and intended to keep to himself unless he could not avoid it: Command wanted to debrief him personally, had ordered it weeks earlier. Jim's refusal to divert his ship and waste valuable time that could otherwise go to preventing the Diabolus from attacking unprotected worlds had deflected his superiors for the time being, yet he knew he could not do so forever.

"Everyone just... keep an eye on him," Kirk muttered finally, taking his seventh and final shot of the evening. "I hesitate to call him unstable, but I'm a little weary about where his head is of late."

Each of his staff nodded in turn as the chime went off at their backs, the computer insistently announcing he had a caller and he yelled, "Come in!" with a yawn. He'd been awake thirty-nine hours by then and the slow burn of exhaustion had been powered by the booze, shoving him farther and father toward his dreamland, the urge to sleep tickling at the edges of his mind.

"I see," Chekov's voice rang out, his face drawn from sadness and rage, betrayal. "I do not warrant invitations to be amongst my friends anymore. This is good to know. Captain, Admiral Pike has sent a message for you."

"Pavel..."

The young man glared, his permanently scarred eyes bloodshot from his own lack of sleep; Uhura winced a little as his words penetrated her inebriated state. They hadn't invited the boy since he was the subject of their discussion, and now she regretted it.

The men around her looked equally contrite though silent.

"I can take this call in my office." As Kirk made his way toward the door, he stopped and squeezed Chekov's shoulder, saying, "Pavel, stay. Have some drinks."

He shook his head in outright refusal and spun on a disfigured heel, disappearing into the turbolift with a groan as his weak knee collapsed under him, but the doors slid shut before Kirk could get to him.

It was in that moment that Jim's heart sank and his skin was lit with shame and grief: shame that he had let his concern for Chekov override his common sense, thinking that Pavel wouldn't discover the nocturnal gathering of the other staff, and grief for the reality as it, at long last, hit him that Sulu's pretty statements had been right and they had truly lost the young man.

With a ball in his throat, he glanced at Bones, who'd reluctantly championed sending Chekov to Earth for intensive therapy and nodded.

Being captain meant he had to make the hard choices – who lived, who died, who fought, who worked even when they were bleeding. Who they had to part with for a time to ensure that person's health, even if it meant he'd be facing the anger of his crew for what they'd see as rejection.

"Jim, it's the right thing," McCoy murmured as Kirk slipped from the room. He nearly missed Jim's response to the noise of the closing door, only just managing to make out the, "No. It's not," over the metallic hiss.


End file.
